


Ashes to Ashes

by Eliza Knight (newtonx3x)



Series: Ash [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ash - Freeform, Boredom, Cocaine, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Feels, Jewels, Methamphetamine, Murder, Mystery, Nostalgia, References to Drugs, proper genius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5705416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtonx3x/pseuds/Eliza%20Knight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part I of Ash</p><p>Sherlock is alive, John has moved out, there's a new resident at Baker Street, and Moriarty is back. Can things get even more interesting for Sherlock Holmes?</p><p>Yes.</p><p>The Crown Jewels have disappeared, and there's a little note left for the Great Detective. Lestrade is on the case, and he's enlisted the help of Sherlock and the new Baker Street resident. It doesn't take Sherlock long to figure out she's a proper genius. She's more than intelligent, and she stands toe-to-toe with Sherlock as they're forced to team up and not only find the Jewels, but dismantle Moriarty's network. The crime web is repairing itself from the Fall, and these two geniuses are teaming up to bring it down - again.</p><p>Moriarty has gotten to the Crown before, but this time something is different. The Jewels are gone, and so has the criminal mastermind. Instead of a game, however, there's a shadow. The shadow of an accomplice in the security footage, and everyone knows they will never catch them once Moriarty is arrested. With two genius detectives working the case, Moriarty is an easy catch, but the second party - the only person Moriarty will work with - still eludes them...</p><p> ... and then the jewels are found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to update this work at least biweekly. You might have to pester me to get that to happen, though!
> 
> Please alert me of any spelling and/or grammar issues you find in the chapter. Just leave them in the comments below. Thanks in advance!

Cat-like footfalls echoed lightly down the Berlin alley, long, black hair and a crimson scarf trailing behind her as she ducked around a corner. Intense, golden eyes kept a careful watch as pale fingers drew her gun from her pocket and chambered a round. Her breath was visible as it escaped her black lips and her already intense gaze was marked as piercing with dark eyeshadow and eyeliner.

She squatted behind the wall, her black, knee-height leather boots allowing her a surprising level of freedom with her movements. Her coat brushed against the ground, reaching her thighs when she stood.

This was it. If she managed to catch these guys she could consider the criminal network dismantled. Her contact said there was another agent taking care of east, so long as she handled most of Europe. She'd cornered the last five men in Berlin, and it did appear that it would come down to a shootout. She kept a careful eye on the rooftops in case of any snipers, but knew that there wouldn't be any when she heard rushing footsteps approaching. _Three men._

There were two others, but she needn't worry about them just yet. It would only take her three bullets to put the approaching felons in their graves. She had orders to shoot-to-kill if need be, and since this group was armed, she wouldn't be wasting her time trying to subdue them.

The men rounded the corner just as her mobile rang, alerting them of her presence. She quickly answered and tossed it on the ground, pulling herself to a standing position and firing three times, quickly reaching into her boot and throwing a knife behind her. She'd heard the man trying to sneak up on her long ago, and knew he wouldn't be an issue.

All criminal weapons clattered to the ground as their owner followed suit, bullet wounds ripping through their chests. The knife she had thrown was lodged in her attacker's throat, and she pulled it free to speed up the man's death. In that sense, she offered him a shred of mercy.

She turned her attention back to the discarded mobile, picking it up as a voice could be heard.

"Bad time?" he asked, almost as if he could feel her glare through the phone.

"You almost got me killed, Mycroft," she hissed. "I thought you said you'd be tracking me; backstreet Berlin is not exactly the best place to call me... wait, shut up."

"I didn't-"

"No, shut up," she hissed, lowering her phone as she counted the corpses. _Four._ She was missing one man.

Before she could raise her weapon again, a gunshot cracked through the once foreboding silence. She dove to the side, knowing it had come from the building in front of her. She spotted the gunman as the bullet ripped through her shoulder. Lucky for her, the attacker was on the ground floor, so she immediately raised her pistol and put a round through his head.

"Damn," she murmured through grit teeth as Mycroft spoke again.

"Ash? Are you okay?" He genuinely sounded concerned.

"Fine, fine," she replied, pulling her coat off to inspect the wound. "It missed everything important. Just a flesh wound."

"You got shot; not exactly 'just a flesh wound'." the genius said bluntly. Ash let out an airy, sarcastic laugh as she inspected the wound.

"You think? For being a genius, you're an idiot."

Mycroft chose to disregard her insult. "So that's the last of your part, then," he replied simply. "I happen to be in town, so I'll send Anthea and a car to get you. Just don't take the battery out of your phone."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied with a sigh. "Hope you don't mind a little blood on the seats."

"My brother has allowed me to get used to it."

~л~

Shifting in the chair uncomfortably, Mycroft offered Ash some tea, which she respectfully declined.

"So, glad to be out?" he offered as small talk to get the conversation started.  
  
Ash nodded. "Thanks for that," she replied, silently praying that he would just get to the point. "Cursed places, hospitals." He called her here for whatever reason, so obviously it was more than small talk. She took a good look at him and sighed. She was here so he could update her on his brother.

She's heard a lot about _Sherlock Holmes,_ but had never met the "Great Detective" in person. He obviously wanted her to keep an eye on Sherlock while she healed. Mycroft had gotten her out of hospital long before the doctors wanted to discharge her, but he was adamant, much to her relief. She was under "strict" orders not to do anything strenuous for at least six months, which clearly meant no firearms, wild chases, or anything particularly fun.

"What did Sherlock do this time?" she asked, growing impatient.

Mycroft passed her a folder. She saw "Holmes, Sherlock" on the tab and flipped it open, already knowing what was inside.

"You'd be surprised how alike you both look," he commented. "aside from the eyes, of course."

There was a picture of Sherlock Holmes right up front, and Ash raised an eyebrow. He had blue-grey eyes that bordered on green at certain angles, and wore a scarf identical to hers in every way, save that his was a deep blue. His hair was dark, and curly beyond all hope. Sherlock had clearly embraced the untenable mop of hair on his head, as it appeared he did little to comb it and allowed it to hang down around his ears. He wore a suit perfectly tailored to him, and had a long coat also similar to her own, except hers was shorter and tailored to her figure.

The folder also had newspaper clipping about his suicide, and a document that marked his last known location. She scoffed.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Obviously Sherlock is in London now," she said. "If he's done his part in dismantling Moriarty's network, and because you're here, he has, then he'd be back in London by now. He'd see John the first chance he got."

Mycroft appeared to be aware of the detail that was Sherlock's location, and he pointed to a picture of John Watson.

"John has dinner reservations at this location," he said, showing her a picture and location of the restaurant. "I can't stop Sherlock from telling John that he's not dead, but John is likely to beat Sherlock to a pulp."

"Well, we don't want that to happen again, do we?" Ash shot back rudely, a bit pissed off that Mycroft's job for her was to save his little brother's ass. She sighed. "Fine. I've got a way that will certainly dampen the beating Sherlock will receive."

"And how is that?" Mycroft asked as she passed the files back and stood to leave. Her hand fell on the doorknob and she looked over her shoulder at him.

"He thinks I'm dead, too," she grinned and slipped out the door. She knew Mycroft would be confused by her remark, and no doubt look her up in order to discover what she meant. He would be in for one hell of a shocker.

~л~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update by  
> 19 February 2016


	2. Interception

I tore up the steps, taking them two at a time as I heard the landlady bustling about. She clearly desired to know who was going upstairs. I reached the door to his flat, reaching into my pocket for a key.

"Dear, I'm afraid you can't go up there," I heard her call from downstairs. "If you're looking for Sherlock..." She trailed off, clearly unaware of the news.

I found the key and showed it to her before opening the door. "If I can't go in here, then why is it I have a key?"

She recognized my voice, that much was obvious. I calculated that it would take approximately six-point-six seconds for reality to sink in. As she pondered that, I stepped into the flat, pausing a moment to take in the scene.

The curtains were drawn shut, casting a grieving darkness across the flat. There was dust covering just about everything, and I immediately knew that Baker Street was still in mourning over a death that had never occurred. I quickly flung the curtains open to shed some light across the lonely rooms, deducing as much as I could in as little time. There were two armchairs, facing slightly towards each other, one of which had a skull sitting patiently on the seat cushion. A violin sat, unregarded off to the side, but something was off about the way it was perched atop the piles of sheet music.

The landlady walked in as I gently lifted the instrument, smiling as I pulled the how across the strings and an eloquent note followed. It was just like the dust that painted the room in grey tones. You couldn't put back dust; dust was eloquent.

"My dear, I didn't know you played violin," she said, causing me to look up. I chuckled and ran my forefinger across several nearby surfaces, inspecting their true appearance against their dusty alternative.

"Mrs. Hudson," I murmured, playing a few, soft notes. "Do you miss Sherlock?"

She seemed slightly startled by my question, initially unable to respond. I could tell that she wanted to ask about me; ask about how I wasn't dead. Politely, she refrained from giving into her curiosity, choosing instead to merely answer my question.

"Yes, of course dear," she said sadly after a beat. "Unfortunately, Sherlock... He's..."

I decided to show a fragment of mercy and relieve her of her sorrows. "And if I were to tell you that he isn't?"

I put the violin back on the papers and picked up the skull, staring into its eye sockets as if looking for an answer.  _Yes, this might work._ I turned my attention to the kitchen, which had also been gathering dust, but I could tell that the order and tidiness wasn't due to Sherlock. At one point, it had been John's job, but the last time it was cleaned was evidently post-mortem, and had been done by Mrs. Hudson.

I shuffled through the experiments before opening the fridge and finding a severed head. Completely unfazed, I only grinned, but decided against using that to stall John. He'd only think me a deranged, psychopathic murderer. He'd be half-right, but I was hoping for a brief, paralyzing trauma so that I could get Sherlock out of range before emotions took over.

Leaving the head in the fridge, I picked up a petri dish, looking it over. A shrill, crippling scream of pure you ripped through the air, and I accidentally dropped the petri dish as I went to cover my ears. The glass shattered when it got the floor, thankfully, pulling Mrs. Hudson out of her joy-induced mania.

Deciding that it was in my beat interest to leave, I grabbed some small pieces of paper and scribbled some notes for John. The skull would certainly remind him, but the notes would buy Sherlock and I some extra time to get back to Baker Street. I stuffed the paper in the skull's eye sockets, and shoved it in my bag.

Placing the key on the seat of John's chair, I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and started down the stairs to leave. My hand fell on the doorknob when I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"Are you saying that both Sherlock and yourself fakes your deaths?"

I turned back to see her coming down the stairs. The expression on her face was mixed with a sad joy and concern. My hand slid off the knob.

"Trust me when I say this," I replied, taking her hand reassuringly. "I did not intent, or even want, to disappear for so long. In terms of Sherlock, though, I can only say that Moriarty was involved."

Leaving her with that thought, I slipped out the door and into the silky London night. The air and streets were damp with the recent rainfall, and the passing vehicles sprayed water behind them as they drove. I shifted the strap of my bag so it say comfortably on my shoulder, and hailed a cab.

~л~

I slipped the driver payment for the trip, half-jumping out of the cab as I spotted Sherlock step into the restaurant. I quickly pursued him, grabbing him by the back of his coat and dragging him outside. The surprise from the ambush faded much quicker than I anticipated, and was forced to duck the swings aimed at my head, and wrestling to keep him in my grasp. Once we were outside, I released him, he immediately whipped around to face me, his blue-grey eyes blazing. His eyes flicked across my form, clearly deducing and assessing if I was a threat. I caught his gaze lingering for a split-second longer over my unnatural, golden eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was tall - just surpassing six feet in height, but he still appeared to be taller in the pictures of him. His dark hair was unkempt, at first glance, but upon closer inspection, I saw that it was arranged in an orderly form of chaos. His features were sharp, prominent and I saw in his movements... a woman. A dominatrix, to be exact. The way he shifted slightly in his perfectly tailored suit confirmed my suspicions. Not only did it reveal that there had been a dominatrix in his life, no doubt for a case, but it also showed his injuries. Across his back, no doubt, would be n array of cuts from his time in Serbia. Mycroft hadn't told her exactly what country his little brother had been in, but she'd caught a glimpse of a Serbian dinar inside his coat pocket, despite the obvious fact that he was trying to hide it from me.

He had apparently deemed me unthreatening, unaware of the knife I always kept in my boot, and he continued to stare at me. I lifted my gaze to meet his before rolling my eyes. He still thought me a goldfish.

"If you're going to be an idiot by going in there and using a 'disguise' to tell John how you're not dead," I sighed. "and I know you are, then you might not be as smart as everyone thinks."

His gaze narrowed suspiciously. "Mycroft put you up to this," he said, more as a statement than a question. "Tell him that I'm not leaving England unless Moriarty comes back from the dead. I was told that he had an agent covering the rest of Europe. He wasn't lying."

"Mycroft did send me," I replied, making him scoff. "but he doesn't want anything from you except to stop being stupid."

Sherlock wasn't convinced. "He thinks that John doesn't deserve to know that I'm alive?" he snapped. He'd tried to mask the question, and if I'd been anyone else, I would've thought he was making a statement. I sighed. The idiot really didn't know.

"Sherlock," I hissed. "use that genius head of yours and  _stop guessing."_

He seemed almost taken aback, but his eyes lowered to my bag. After a moment, he raised an eyebrow.

"You want to tell John," he said. "And you think that, since Mycroft sent you, John will take the news better."

"You're half right," I replied with a smirk. "I do want to tell John, but I don't think that my delivery will change his reaction. I showed you that much."

"Then give me a good reason why I should let you tell him."

"Because, Sherlock," I said, sounding like a mother explaining to a child why it was wrong to fry ants with a magnifying glass. "I know, without Mycroft's help, that you're already injured. If you tell John, he'll put you six feet underground, and there won't be any faking it this time."

Leaving him with that thought, I started towards the restaurant door and had pushed it open slightly when Sherlock spoke.

"You're injured, too," he said firmly. "Gunshot wound; left shoulder."

I turned to face him, a sinister glint in my eye. "Yes, but I'm not telling him - I'm just sending him a very clear message." I carefully pat my bag before stepping into the restaurant.

The golden theme that decorated the room was trying a bit too hard to cast an elegant aura. I quickly spotted John, sitting at a table with a woman.  _Sherlock wouldn't like that._ John was anxiously fiddling with something in his pocket, and once he let it rest for a moment, I was able to figure out what it was.

It was a ring box. He was going to propose.

I didn't need to delve too deeply into his partner's secrets to know that she would say 'yes'. A waiter approached me, intending to lead me to a table, but I promptly held out the bag for him to take.

"Take this and a bottle of your finest wine to that man's table," I said, handing him the money, bag, and a large tip as he stammered briefly. I pointed to John's table. "but only after he proposes."

The waiter slowly took the items, glanced over to John, and smiled. I nodded, pat him on the shoulders, and slid out the door. Moments before I left, I heard the people - customer and server alike - gasp before cheering.

I slid my hands into my jacket pockets as Sherlock eyed me curiously.

"And now," I grinned. "we run."

~л~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update by:  
> 27 February 2016


	3. Not Dead

Ash and Sherlock sat patiently at Baker Street, awaiting John's arrival. Ash drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the armrest of Sherlock's chair, and had won the short battle for the seat, much to Sherlock's distaste. He saw her steeple her fingers under her chin as she leaned back, closing her eyes as she thought. Sherlock now knew how John felt when the detective has slipped into his mind palace. He felt impatient as he was unable to even guess as to what she might be thinking, and annoyed because, even with his ability to deduce someone's life story, he was unable to do so when it came to her.

“The name is Ash, for the record,” she mused, keeping her eyes closed. “Just so your brain can stop calling me ‘her’.”

Sherlock's interest peaked. He was curious as to how she knew specifically what he'd referred to her as.

Ash took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Sherlock had noticed her unusual eyes before, but now he could see specifically what color they were. They weren't gold, necessarily, but a shade of green that had lots of yellow hues so it turned her eyes an almost inhuman shade of lime that, from a distance or in poor lighting, appeared gold.

She didn't explain how she knew what she did, and instead opted to ask Sherlock a question.

“So, how was Serbia? It cannot've been overly pleasant.”

She was referring to the wounds on his back. It wasn't a far leap to figure out that they were there — Sherlock couldn't quite make himself comfortable in John's chair and kept figiting as a result. His gaze met Ash's and as he was about to accuse her of aquiring her knowledge from Mycroft, he hesitated. Everything about her told him the opposite. Mycroft had told her that Sherlock existed, but only until recently did he tell her of his name. His older brother had said nothing of which country he'd been in.

As he grappled to find the answer as to how he knew, one trait about Ash stood out, and would not go away. He gave her a full deduction once-over, and did a double take when all he could get was a single trait.

_Clever._

Sherlock had known that she was clever, but earlier, he'd given her a glance, nothing more. Now, he offered her his first twice-over. No one had ever made him check his deductions. He'd never needed to.

“Mycroft didn't tell you,” he said finally, giving her an intent stare to mask the curiosity burning inside him. _Who is she?_

“That is correct,” she purred, pulling out her phone and smiling. “John's two minutes and twenty-six seconds away, so you've got time.”

She leaned forward in his chair, a small smile creasing her lips. “Tell me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered. “How _do_ I know that you were Serbia? You have two minutes before John arrives.”

Sherlock failed to hide the surprised look on his face, apparently offering Ash enough satisfaction to sink back into his chair. No one had ever asked him to deduce _himself_ before. He took another shot at deducing her, but fell short of anything of use. He thought for a moment, and he fiddled with the currency in his pocket for a moment before he raised his gaze to meet hers.

“Exactly,” Ash replied silkily. “You're doing better than I would've thought, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock decided to turn the tables on her, as he was tired of being put on the spot. “You're name isn't Ash,” he commented. She scoffed.

“That much is obvious,” she sighed. “But what about you, _William?”_

Once again, Sherlock was put on the spot, despite his efforts to avoid it. He was gradually learning bits about Ash, but he was growing frustrated with being able to deduce nothing but her intense cleverness.

“At least ‘Sherlock’ is a part of my real name,” he shot back.

“Well, by that measure, then ‘Ash’ is in mine.”

Just then, they could hear the sound of the door opeing downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson shuffling to meet whoever has entered.

“John,” Ash murmured, straightening herself in his chair.

Per their agreement, Mrs. Hudson stalled John for a few moments, giving Ash and Sherlock time to switch places. Sherlock, still unable to make himself comfortable, continued to shift and reposition himself. Eventually he found that carefully leaning back and steepling his hands beneath his chin worked. He shot a curious stare to Ash — it was the same position she'd been in not long ago.

The door was slowly pushed open, and he saw Ash's eyes lock on the trembling figure of John, who was followed by a curious, and unsure fiance. John's gaze hovered over Sherlock for a moment, before he locked onto Ash. In his trembling hand, was Sherlock's skull, and the two slips of paper that had come with it. Sherlock could see clearly what Ash had written on them.

 _Not dead._  
_Miss me? –Ash_

John held the skull firmly in his still-shaking hand as his gaze did not diverge from Ash. Sherlock turned to see how Ash reacted, and he noticed how calm she was, despite John's death glare.

John took a deep breath and placed the skull on the coffee table. “You—” he started to say, his fingers curling into fists. “You both—”

“You're—” John's fiance, whose name Sherlock and Ash both deduced to be ‘Mary’, started to say, looking at Sherlock.

“Afraid so,” came the detective's swift reply.

“Oh my God.”

“Not quite.”

Ash snorted at Sherlock's response, earning an even darker glare from John, if it was at all possible. The doctor wasn't even considering Sherlock anymore. All of his anger was directed onto Ash.

Mary turned her attention to Ash. “And you're—”

Ash shook her head. “No, the other one.”

“You're John's—”

“Yes. Also not dead.”

Sherlock returned the stifled laughter, earning a cautionary glance from Ash. Now was not the time for Sherlock to be clever. John's anger was completely directed towards Ash, but if it deviated from her, and fell onto Sherlock, they'd be cleaning _his_ blood off the carpet.

“Did you bring your gun to propose?" Ash asked, raising an eyebrow. “You really haven't moved on yet. Still a bit on edge, are we?"

“Stop,” John hissed. “Just stop. You let me believe that you were dead, you let me grieve, and now you just show up and tell me that it was all a hoax."

“Well, Sherlock did the same,” Mary pointed out, earning a glare from John. “Sorry.”

John redirected his attention to Ash. “Sherlock wasn't gone for ten years,” he growled. “Sherlock at least had the heart not to die in my arms!”

Sherlock's eyes grew wife at the remark. He knew that Ash had faked her death, but he didn't know how.

“You weren't supposed to find me,” Ash replied. “Lastrade was."

“So Lastrade was in on it too?”

“No, but I called him before you. He was supposed to find me, you were supposed to identify the body, and I was supposed to keep out of sight after that.”

“So Molly was in on it?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It was supposed to stay between Mycroft, myself, and the sniper, but I'm afraid I picked the wrong time to slip out.”

“And you couldn't even offer a single word to let me know that you're alive,” John stated, more as an observation than a question.

“I didn't want to leave.”

“Then why did you?” John snapped.

“Because it wasn't safe anymore,” Ash murmured, lowering her gaze. “Moriarty had made it clear that if I didn't die, you would.”

Sherlock's head popped up at the mention of Moriarty. The criminal genius had repeated himself — "killed" two of his most formidable opponents using the same tactic? It was unlike him, but he supposed that Moriarty knew that John never spoke of Ash. In a way, it was so clever that Sherlock was almost disappointed that the criminal had put a bullet through his head.

“He'll be back, you know,” Ash said, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize that she was addressing him now. “With you, Moriarty put a bullet through his head. With me, he threw himself off a bridge. Strange how one act inspired another."

Ash turned her attention back to John, who had slipped his hand into his pocket. She didn't flinch when he pulled his pistol from his jacket and aimed it at her.

“John!” Mary protested, but Ash raised a hand to stop her.

“Nothing less than I expected,” she said smoothly, inspecting John's face. “Someone you care for dies in your arms, then shows up ten years later saying it was all faked? Two years and a note doesn't compare. A gun is what any sane man would do.”

John seemed taken aback. “Do you even realize what you did?” he hissed bitterly. Ash saw him discreetly chamber a round as his voice wavered.

“It's been long enough,” she replied. “I knew how much it destroyed you then, so much that I know that you _can_ shoot me now, if you so desire.”

John's hand remained perfectly steady, but the one by his side began to tremble slightly. “I honestly don't know if I could.”

“Kill me? No. Shoot me? Probably," Ash clarified. A silence fell over the room and she took a deep breath. “Let me tell you exactly why I came back.”

“I've got all night.”

“I need your help,” she answered, taking all of them by surprise. Ash glanced to Sherlock. “We both do.”

Sherlock took this as his cue to speak. “There's an underground terrorist cell operating in London,” he explained. “and they're planning an attack.”

“A big one,” Ash added.

John looked to Mary sarcastically, while his fiance appeared merely intrigued. “So you both have come back from the dead because you want my help,” he breathed. His gaze darted between Sherlock and Ash, and in a split second, had put a bullet in her shoulder. Ash gasped in pain and Sherlock's eyes widened when he realized that John had hit her left shoulder, and judging by Ash's muted reaction, had also hit the exact spot that her previous wound had been located.

Ash didn't respond beyond grit teeth and hauling herself out of his chair. She spun around to her back was to Sherlock.

“One wound or two?” she asked.

“One,” Sherlock replied, remaining seated as John's gun was still raised. He hadn't moved an inch since firing, and didn't appear to be planning to.

“Thank God,” Ash muttered. “Good shot, John.”

She stifled a laugh as John's gaze switched from enraged to bewildered.

Ash took off her jacket, tossing it over a chair in the kitchen as she inspected the wound. Sherlock could see that she was wearing a flowing, black blouse with the sleeves cut off undeaneth her coat. Sherlock only mimicked her grin when it was almost impossible to tell that there had been a recently healing wound in the same place.

He watched Ash disappear into the bathroom, and Sherlock turned his attention to John.

“What was she—” he trailed off.

“I have no idea,” he lied, knowing well enough that Ash didn't want John to know if her injury. He didn't blame her, as he didn't plan to tell John, ever.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Sherlock knew it to be Mrs. Hudson. She'd heard the gunshot and was checking to make sure nothing was damaged.

“Yoo-hoo,” she said, her voice muffled by the door. “I heard a gun — is everyone okay?”

Ash poker her head out from the bathroom, a piece of gauze pressed to her shoulder. Her expression was mostly blank, with a hint of annoyance that only Sherlock could detect.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Ash replied flatly. The wall is fine, the furniture is fine — we're all fine."

On that note, she vanished into the bathroom again, taking her coat with her just as Mary managed to remove the gun from John's hand. Sherlock noticed how the color in John's face had disappeared. He could see that John didn't plan on shooting Ash, nor did he think he could've.

John turned his attention to Sherlock, awkwardly shifting his stance. “So why did you do it?” he asked lightly. Sherlock paused a moment when he realized what Ash's plan had been from the beginning, and admired her creative, sacrificial genius. All of John's rage had been discharged with the bullet, leaving Sherlock unscathed.

“Moriarty had to be stopped,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, and his voice dropped to a murmur when he added: “and because Moriarty was going to kill you, Lastrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't die.”

John's gaze sparked with surprise. “So Moriarty has used me as leverage twice now.”

“It would appear so.”

Ash emerged to join them, her coat slung over her shoulders, and Sherlock could see the hole in the shoulder was stitched up so perfectly that it looked like a dark smudge on the fabric.

John opened his mouth to speak when he saw her. “Ash I—”

She stopped him. “Don't say that you're sorry, John,” she replied with a sigh. “It really is a waste of time because you've done nothing to offend me.”

“But—”

Ash scoffed. “Oh, please, John, do be serious,” she replied silkily. “I said it before: ‘nothing less than I'd expect’ and besides, it's far from the first time someone's shot me.”

John stammered when she offered her argument to silence him. She pulled out her phone and started digging through the internet to see if she could find any starting points with the terrorists just as John's phone rang. It was Lastrade.

“Let me,” Ash said, holding out her hand and lowering her own phone. John tossed it to her and she answered.

“Hello, Lastrade,” she said with a smile. “Yes, yes, it's me. Ten years, not dead, get to the point.”

Sherlock could hear Lestrade's shocked voice though the phone, but was unable to distinguish what he was saying.

“What?” Ash replied, making everyone's eyebrows raise. After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “You're certain it's him? No Rich Brooke look-alike this time?”

Silence for a brief moment and Ash purses her lips for a moment as she thought. “Fine,” she muttered. “But it isn't like Sherlock and I aren't already busy.”

Sherlock could understand Lestrade clearly as he paractically screamed “What?!”

He took the phone from Ash. “Yes, hello, Graham, it's me. Also not dead. Stop smoking — those things will kill you.”

“His name is Greg,” John piped up, making Ash smile.

“Ooh you bastard,” Lestrade said, and Mary chuckled.

Sherlock hung up the phone and passed it back to John. Ash had stepped closer to the door. “The Crown Jewels have vanished and he's back,” Ash explained to Sherlock, who was following her out the door. Ash paused a moment and turned to look at John for a moment longer. “My offer still stands,” she said briefly, turning to leave when John stopped her.

“I'm in.”

~л~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update by  
> 27 February 2016


	4. Take the Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys - 50 hits! Love you!

Sherlock, John, and Mary pushed through the journalists and ducked into Scotland Yard, rushing to avoid the stupid questions about Sherlock's "death" on the way to talk to Lestrade. It wasn't any better once they were inside, though. Everyone wanted to know  _how_ he did it, and Anderson was, by far, the most annoying. Sherlock took one look at him and deduced the whole guilt-driven fan club that he had founded...  _The Empty Hearse_ as the idiot had named it. The trio ignored every question and ducked into Lestrade's office as soon as possible.

John looked to Mary and drew out a long breath once they escaped the crowd. Sherlock merely tucked his hands into his pockets and stared at Lestrade intently. John shrugged and directed his attention to the anxious DI, noticing how his hands rubbed together anxiously and he twitched in his chair.

In a slow movement, Lestrade spun the laptop around so the trio could see the face of Jim Moriarty, plain as day, staring at the camera with a beaming smile, jewels-in-hand. He was wearing a Union Jack baseball cap and had earbuds in his ears as his proud, psychopathic grin spread across his face. Sherlock noticed a shadow in the right corner that gave him questions, but he didn't say anything about it. He wanted to see the scrime first.

"Rewind it," he said sharply. "I need to see what happened."

Lestrade said nothing and started the footage from the moment Moriarty walked in. They could see the crowds clear, followed by Moriarty turning to face a guard just as they were knocked unconscious. Sherlock's interest peaked, wondering who had knocked the guard unconscious, as it couldn't have been the consulting criminal. They could then see Moriarty begin to dance to a tune only he could hear, eventually taking a beat to pause. He was chewing gum, and in that brief moment, he pulled the chewed gum from his mouth and stuck it to the glass. He then resumed his dance, slipping his hand into his pocket and removing something small and shiny. Sherlock saw that it wasn't a metallic shiny, but more crystalline. Moriarty pressed it to the glass case as his movements grew more exaggerated, building up to the finale. He danced over to the fire extinguisher and, with large, accentuated movements, pulled it from the wall. With a thrust, he concluded the climax of his scene with smashing through the case. Moriarty brushed much of the broken glass aside, shot the camera a smile, and reached in to remove the jewels. After he had them in his possession, he beamed once more, then disappeared from view.

Lestrade stopped the footage. "It's undoubtedly him," he said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "So how did this nutter blow his brains out and survive?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Well, according to Ash, he'd faked his death before," he said with a shrug. "So who knows?"

"True, but that time he threw himself off a bloody bridge," Lestrade commented. "Where is Ash anyway?"

"Um... gone to see Mycroft," John answered as Sherlock analyzed the security frame-by-frame. "What did you say? A-about Moriarty?"

"Moriarty," Lestrade repeated. "He's 'killed' himself before. Last time, he threw himself off a bridge. We worked on the case that led up to it. We were never sure of how insane he really was until then."

John's eyes went wide with shock and realization. "When was this?"

Lestrade remained silent, well aware of the events that proceeded Moriarty's apparent suicide. Sherlock looked up long enough to see the expression on John's face. The detective wasn't surprised that he'd figured it out before John, but Sherlock was slightly caught off guard when he saw the denial on John's face.

They were interrupted by the door opening and Ash came flying in. Sherlock could see the flicker of a grimace on her face, subtle enough so that no one else in the room noticed. Ash's gaze immediately fell onto John, and her expression grew almost guilty.

"John," she started to say, but he cut her off.

"You were working for Scotland Yard and you never told me?" he seethed.

"No," she defended. "I was working for Mycroft. It was my job to keep Scotland Yard quiet in the event that they stumble onto something they shouldn't have. Occasionally, Lestrade asked for help on a case."

"But you never said a word. Not even a hint."

"John, it wasn't like you knew Sherlock, or Mycroft, or had even been in Afghanistan," she countered. "You were a civilian, John, and according to the records, I wasn't."

Ash sighed, closing her eyes as Sherlock watched her like a hawk, hell-bent on seeing what she did next. "John," she breathed. "you know that emotions are a  _tool_ for me to use, and you didn't care. You knew what you were getting into. You went to fight in the war, believing that I was dead. You met Sherlock, solved crimes for Scotland Yard, for the British government, and even got engaged thinking I was dead."

She didn't need to directly state her point - it was loud and clear. Ash took a deep breath and directed a serious gaze towards Sherlock.

"Call your brother," she said firmly. "I'll handle the jewels and Moriarty."

Sherlock shot her a quizzical look, but said nothing as he turned his coat collar up and looked at John.

"Come along, John," he said, opening the door and fleeing the journalists once the doctor had joined him.

Ash calmly folded her hands into her pockets and turned to Mary. "So," she mused, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Mary, care to join Lestrade and I in tracking down some jewels?"

Mary raised an eyebrow. "What about your thief?" she asked with a smile, leading Ash to briefly return the gesture.

"He's right up on the list," she replied. "and I'll be damned if I let him beat me a second time. No one is dying this round, Moriarty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update by  
> 4 March 2016


	5. Who Knows

Mary shuffled through the maps and glanced up at Ash. The detective was standing on the seat of a black sofa, staring at a plethora of pictures, maps, newsclippings, and black pen. She'd recently moved into the basement — 221C Baker Street being the official address. She and Mary had left Lestrade at Scotland Yard to dig up as much as he could that was on record, while she and Mary searched the internet for hints. They decided that it would be best if Lestrade didn't know that they had searched MI-5 as well.

Everything deemed useful Ash had taped to the wall, and white string marked suspects to likely location for the jewels to be hidden. Ash had, of course, noticed the shadow in the top corner, and Mary had seen the blood drain from the detective's face upon seeing it. Ash had also taken the time and hacked into Scotland Yard to make a copy of the video for herself, while Mary worked her way into the MI-5 files.

“So,” Mary said, standing beside Ash, who was inspecting the wall of evidence and ideas. “Who do you think would work with Moriarty? Is there any chance that he'd killed them after the theft?”

Ash's fingers brushed over a few suspects, before she uncapped her black pen and crossed them out. “Moriarty wouldn't just work _with_ someone like that to kill them,” she mused, tracing her index finger over the maps. “No. If Moriarty found someone so valuable that he wouldn't simply use them — someone like that would have to kept around.”

Ash spun around and stepped off the couch, moving over to a table and picking up various newspapers that had reported on the theft. Most of the articles started on the jewels and then drifted towards either hers or Sherlock's faked deaths, but she was able to take insurmountable bits of information from them.

“Another proper genius,” she murmured, spinning on her heel and crossing out another four suspects. Ash took a deep breath, stepped back, and Mary could see the exact moment when everything snapped together. Ash grinned and pulled out her phone.

“Reichenbach Falls,” she said, quickly sending a few texts and grabbing her coat. “It's a waterfall chain in Switzerland. Moriarty, being Moriarty, would hide there, if nothing else.”

Mary nodded, grabbing her coat and joining Ash by the door. “So what makes you think that the jewels are there?” she asked.

“I don't,” Ash replied as they stepped into the busy London scene. “I just need to talk to Moriarty myself. Chances are, he's playing a game, so he'll give us a few, albeit subtle, clues.”

A black Mercades rolled in front of them, and without a word, Ash and Mary climbed inside. They didn't need to explain to the driver where they were going, and soon, Mycroft had himself, Ash, and Mary in a helicopter and on their way to Switzerland.

~л~

“I can't see the pattern, it's too nebulous,” Sherlock mused, staring at a wall that appeared very similar to the one in 221C in the sense that it was covered in a seemingly indescernable pattern. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange.”

John looked up from his laptop, a stunned expression on his face. "What— Give his life?"

Sherlock turned and glanced over his shoulder at John before turning back to the wall. “According to Mycroft. There's an underground terrorist network planning an attack on London. That's all we know.” He gestured to the wall. “These are my rats, John.”

“Rats?”

“My markers,” Sherlock clarified. “Agents, lowlifes. People who might be arrested or their diplomatic immunities suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts to move, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally. But the sixth…”

John leaned forward to get a better look at the photo Sherlock had subtly gestured to. He recognized the face, but he couldn't quite place it. “I know him, don't?”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly pleased. “Lord Moran. Peer of the realm; Minister for Overseas Development; pillar of the establishment.”

John acknowledged what he had said with a slight inclination of his head. “Ah.”

Sherlock turned and offered John a matter-of-factly grin. “He's been working for North Korea since 1996.”

"Wait—What?"

Sherlock ignored his surprised remark. “He's the big rat — Rat Number One, and he's just done something _very_ suspicious indeed.”

Sherlock opened John's laptop, typed in the "secret" password, and pulled up a video. It showed Lord Moran stepping into the last car of a train, and then cut to the train pulling into the next station. The doors slid open, and no one stepped off. Sherlock stopped to video and looked at John with a look that could've said ‘well?’

“Um, yeah,” John replied, looking to Sherlock. “That is pretty weird.”

Sherlock had begun to pace, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “There's something missing, something staring me in the face,” he murmured.

John turned his attention back towards the screen. “There's nowhere he could've gotten off?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not according to the maps.”

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he reached into his pocket, swiping through pictures of Lord Moran that he'd just been sent. He smiled.

“Our rat's just come out of his den,” he remarked, turning back to the screen. He stared at it for a few moments before his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. “Oh that's good, that is _brilliant!”_

John stared at Sherlock, confused. “What?”

“I've been an idiot, John,” Sherlock chirped. “A blind _idiot!_ It's not nebulous at all! It's specific, incredibly specific.”

Sherlock noticed that John wasn't following him and he sighed. “It isn't an underground network, John,” he clarified. “It's an _Underground_ network.”

“Okay,” John said slowly, still having failed to catch on. “Wait— What?”

Sherlock darted over to the laptop and replayed the video with Lord Moran getting on the train and disappearing.

“Look,” he explained. “Seven carriages leave Westminster, but only six arrive at St. James' Park.”

John stared at the screen, bewildered once he realized that Sherlock was right. “But how— That's impossible.”

Sherlock shook is head. “Moran didn't disappear, the entire Tube compartment did. Once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing that remains must be the truth. Thay carriage vanished so it must be _somewhere.”_

The detective resumed his pacing, clearly searching his mind palace for the answer. “It vanishes between St. James' Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You're kidnapped and nearly burned to desth at a fireworks par…” he trailed off. John could almost visibly see the puzzle pieces slide together in Sherlock's head.

Sherlock turned to John, a nervous haze in his eye. “What's the date — today's date?”

John checked the laptop screen for the date. “November the— Oh my God.”

“Normally he'd be sitting in the House,” Sherlock continued, maneuvering to stand in front of the sofa. “Tonight there's going to be an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill, but he won't be there, not tonight. Not the fifth of November.”

“Remember remember,” John murmured.

~л~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update by  
> 11 March 2016


End file.
